


The Tell-Tale Heart

by reginalds



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:19:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginalds/pseuds/reginalds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is not how I expected this to go,” Simon says, removing his hands from his hair at Clary’s glance. “I expected to hang around his bookstore pining after him for the next two to three years, leave when he got a restraining order against me, or his bookstore shut down, because seriously, he is the worst business owner ever, and then spend the rest of my life tormenting myself over what might have been.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tell-Tale Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no idea what I’m doing: I just wanted to see Raphael yelling about Latin American literature.
> 
> In case you were wondering, there was a wonderful, absurdly cluttered bookstore in Cobble Hill called Community Bookstore that closed for good a few weeks ago (RIP!). More on that [here](http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-final-months-of-brooklyns-most-cluttered-bookstore). Raphael’s bookstore is a little darker, and a little classier, but the vibe is the same.

“Hello?” Simon calls, “anybody home?”

The bookstore is amazing: rows upon rows of bookcases reaching up to the ceiling, and dimly lit enough that it’s difficult to get a sense of just how large it truly is. At his side, Clary runs a finger across the cracked spines of Sylvia Plath’s collected letters and wrinkles her nose. “Weird,” she says.

“Hello?” Simon calls again, edging around an unruly stack of thick, leather-bound volumes nearly as tall as he is. There’s a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he jumps and hugs his backpack closer to his chest, sighing when it turns out to be a cat with a lustrous black coat, that wends its way between his legs to Clary, who coos and immediately sits down on the dusty bookshop floor to rub her fingers between its ears.

Rolling his eyes fondly, Simon hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder and pushes through the shop, winding his way between bookshelves, and stepping over a tumbled pile of paperbacks.

“Hello?” He calls again, and this time, there’s a loud groan, the sound of a ceramic cup meeting its saucer, and a voice that snaps:

“Good god, _what_?”

Simon rounds a corner to find a man a few years older than he is, dressed in a sharp suit, with fingers pressed to his temples like he has a splitting headache. He’s sitting in a Chesterfield covered in deep green leather, and there’s an enormous book in his lap – _Remembrance of Things Past_ , Simon reads, when he peeks at the title – and a half-drunk cup of black coffee on a saucer on the table beside him.

“Are you, uh,” the man looks up, glaring balefully at Simon as if he was doing something critically important, and not just reading and drinking coffee and ignoring his patrons. “Are you the owner?” Simon asks, when it doesn’t seem like the glare is going to subside anytime soon.

The man rolls his eyes to the ceiling and sighs. “I literally just sat down,” he says, and Simon blinks at him.

“… Is that a yes?”

“Yes, it’s a yes,” the man snaps. “I own this bookshop, what the hell do you want?”

Simon stares at him. “Wow,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “This is the worst business model ever.” The man says nothing. “I’m here because I need a book.” 

“Which book.” It’s not a question, and the man still seems more interested in glaring at Simon and drinking his coffee than helping, but it’s a start, so Simon forges ahead.

“I’m writing a paper on Hemingway,” Simon says, “So, uh, _A Farewell to Arms_?”

That, at least, spurs the man into action. He shuts his book with a loud snap that makes Simon jump. “No,” he says, putting the book aside and standing up. “Absolutely not.” He strides off, disappearing between two shelves, and Simon gapes at him, remaining where he is until a highly annoyed voice shouts: “Are you coming?”

Simon jumps, and hurries after him, rolling his eyes at the raised eyebrow that greets him at the end of one aisle.

“Here,” the man says, thrusting a book into his arms. “Gabriel García Marquez.”

“But,” Simon begins, turning the book in his hands to look at the cover, “I, uh, I’m writing about Hemingway.”

The man sighs, and waves a dismissive hand in the air. “The very last thing this world needs is another idiot running around with a hard-on for Ernest Hemingway.” Simon splutters, and the man speaks over him easily.

“Ernest Hemingway is a _dick_ ,” he says with feeling. “He’s a horrendous misogynist, and not a very good writer. This, though, this book?” He steps closer and presses his fingertips against the book Simon’s holding until it’s tight against Simon’s chest. “This book is something worth reading,” he finishes softly, staring straight into Simon’s eyes in a way that should be highly unnerving. It’s highly attractive, instead, and Simon licks his lips and swallows self-consciously.

“Okay,” he says, slowly, “okay, I’ll give it a try. You want to tell me what it’s about?”

“Family,” the man says lazily, the passion fading from his eyes. He  gives the book one last tap, and strides back down the aisle, not even looking back to see if Simon’s following him. “Love,” he continues as he goes, “history, misfortune, magic.” He shrugs, and settles himself back in the chair Simon found him in, picking up his book in one hand and his cup of coffee in the other. “It’s one of the most extraordinary books ever written.”

“Huh,” Simon says, tracing the title with a finger: _One Hundred Years of Solitude_. “It sounds good.”

“It’s excellent,” the man says, opening his book to a dog-eared page. He takes a sip of coffee, and then puts the cup down, fixing Simon with his startlingly bright eyes. “How about a deal: you can have it for free as long as you come back and tell me what you think of it.”

Simon looks down at the book and then at the man in the chair, and then back at the book. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” the man says.

“What if I don’t like it?” Simon asks, toying with the spine.

“You will,” the man says, simply, and raises his own book, the conversation over.

“Cool,” Simon says. “Thanks.” The man doesn’t say anything, just idly raises his coffee cup to his lips and takes a sip. “I’m, uh, I’m Simon,” Simon says, feeling like an idiot. “Just, you know, in case you were wondering." 

The man looks at him for a long moment, raising an eyebrow while Simon fidgets and then says: “Raphael.”

“Raphael,” Simon says. “Cool. Awesome. Good to… good to meet you.”

Raphael ignores him in favor of turning a page in his book, and Simon grips his new book a little too tightly and stumbles over his feet hurrying back through the shop in search of Clary. She’s still playing with the cat, entertaining it with a bit of string she seems to have pulled out of her bag, and gives it a good scratch on the head when Simon collects her on his way out.

“Did you find what you needed?” She asks, and takes the book from him when Simon shows it to her. “That’s not Hemingway.” 

“The hot bookstore owner said Hemingway’s a dick, so he made me take this one instead,” Simon says. Clary raises her eyebrows at him and he shrugs, rescuing the book from her paint-stained fingers. “Worst business model ever, right?”

+

Raphael’s right: the book is good. It’s fantastic, actually, and Simon is hooked immediately. He misses his subway stop  because he’s engrossed in it, and ends up stranded halfway to Coney Island, waiting for the goddamn Q train to take him home.

Simon writes his paper, and hands it in. He gets coffee with Clary, tries to learn an Against Me! song, and thinks about Raphael. He thinks about Raphael’s delicate hands on the spine of the book, and the gleam in his eyes. Clary teases him about it relentlessly, but it’s nearly a week before Simon can bring himself to walk back to the little bookshop in Cobble Hill.

It’s noon on a Saturday, and every store on Court Street but the bookshop is open for business. The CLOSED sign is pressed tightly against the door, but when Simon cups his hands around his eyes to peek through the door, he can see Raphael moving lazily around the shop, holding a piece of toast in one hand and a book in the other.

Simon rolls his eyes and raps on the door. Raphael jumps and drops his book, glares at it, looks at the door, and glares at Simon, who waves cheerily and knocks again.

Raphael stalks over to the door and whips it open with a terse: “What.”

“Wow,” Simon says, “you are fantastically bad at this.” When Raphael continues to glare, Simon rummages in his backpack for his copy of _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ and holds it up as a peace offering. “I came to tell you what I thought about the book.”

Raphael brightens at that, and pushes the door open a little wider, standing back to let Simon in, and leading the way to the back of the shop, crunching through his toast as he goes.

“Seriously, though,” Simon says as he follows. “How the hell do you manage to stay in business?”

 “I have several lucrative investments,” Raphael says blithely, and settles back into his ridiculous Chesterfield, pushing the plunger down slowly on a French press full of fresh coffee.

“So you’re really rich and you’re using that money to run a secondhand bookstore and be rude to all of your customers?” Simon asks. Raphael just smirks and pours himself a cup of coffee. “I respect that life choice. Can I have a cup of coffee?”

Raphael sighs loudly, but he stands again, disappearing through a door that Simon catches a glimpse of a small kitchen through. While he’s gone, Simon casts around for another chair, and drags one from behind a desk stacked two-deep with literary magazines. He gets a copy of _McSweeney’s_ to his instep for his trouble, but at least he’s got somewhere to sit. Raphael returns with a cup just as Simon settles into the chair, and pours him a cup of piping hot coffee, which Simon takes gratefully.

He’s sipping at the coffee from the strangely delicate china cup Raphael has handed him when it hits him that this should be weird. He and Raphael don’t even know each other, and now they’re sitting and drinking coffee in Raphael’s dusty used bookshop.

“You’re not going to bludgeon me with a heavy object, are you?” Simon asks before he can stop himself. “And then hide my body in the back of your bookshop with the half-price paperbacks?”

Raphael arches an eyebrow at him. “The smell of your decomposing body would be horrific,” he says, which isn’t actually all that reassuring. “And I just sold my last copy of Shakespeare’s collected works, so I’m out of heavy objects for the time being.”

“That’s… good?” Simon says, and Raphael smirks at him.  

“So,” he says, stretching his long legs in front of him – he’s dressed a little more casually today, in dark wash jeans, and a tight black t-shirt with a V-neck that’s a little more distracting than Simon would like – “What did you think of the book?”

“Good,” Simon says, still fixated on the dip of vulnerable skin Raphael’s t-shirt exposes at the base of his neck.

“Glowing praise,” Raphael says dryly, and Simon shakes himself, tears his eyes away from Raphael’s collarbones, and focuses. 

“It was really good,” he amends. “Seriously, I missed my subway stop because I was reading it. It was…” he hesitates, trying to think of  how to describe the way he’d stayed up late reading, and then dreamed about rust and mud and beautiful, sweltering jungles, without sounding like an absolute crazy person. “It was fantastic,” he finishes, lamely. “I don’t think I’ve ever read anything like it.” 

“I told you it was extraordinary,” Raphael says smugly. He sips at his coffee and leans back in his ridiculous Bond villain chair contentedly. Simon rolls his eyes.

“Do you insult all of your customers’ taste in books?” He asks.

“Only the ones with egregiously poor taste,” Raphael says, and he smiles at Simon, for real this time, a bright and blinding smile that makes Simon choke a little on his coffee.

“So if I were to say that I wanted to read the new Jonathan Franzen book…?” Simon begins, testing to see how far he can push it.

“I would take you get your head checked, and then I’d tell you to read Bolaño instead.” Raphael counters easily, his smile taking on a slightly dangerous gleam.

 Simon laughs, and settles himself more comfortably in his chair. “I’ve never read any Bolaño,” he says, “but I’m sure you can enlighten me.”

 Raphael can, and he does. He speaks at length about Roberto Bolaño, and stands abruptly at one point, strides off down between two aisles of books and returns with a slightly scuffed copy of _By Night in Chile_ that he hands to Simon and refuses all offers of payment. It’s engrossing, his passion for these books, and Simon helps Raphael drink three pots of coffee, and leaves in the late afternoon, the whisper of ‘this should be a lot weirder than it is’ squashed somewhere in the back of his mind.

Raphael gives Simon his card before he leaves, “In case you need anything,” he says vaguely, before kicking Simon out, and it’s only after he’s walked the three blocks to the subway that Simon realizes that Raphael never opened the shop for business.

 +

Clary’s waiting for him when he gets home, sprawled across his bed with his _Sandman_ comics. “Where were you?” She asks, turning a page idly. “I called for at least an hour.”

 Simon drops his bag and his new book and shoves her legs out of the way, joining her on the bed.

 “I went back to the bookstore,” he says, and she looks up with a sly grin.

 “And...?”

 “We had coffee,” Simon says. “And he gave me another book.” He shimmies forward on his stomach to snag the book from the floor and show to Clary.

“He’s totally flirting with you,” she says, and Simon flips through the book to avoid looking her in the eye.

“I don’t know…” he says, “I think this book is about the Pinochet dictatorship, it’s not necessarily a declaration of love.”

“But you had _coffee_ ,” she says, grinning at him, and Simon feels himself blush and covers his heated face with his hands. Clary hoots with laughter above him, and Simon rolls over, pressing his face into his duvet. Above him, Clary’s fingers pluck something from his back pocket. “What’s this?” She asks, and it takes a minute for Simon to remember the business card Raphael had handed him before closing the door in his face.

“Raphael’s business card,” he says, and Clary socks him in the shoulder.

“He gave you his number! There was definitely flirting!”

“He gave me his business card!”

“With his number on it!” Clary holds it in front of him, too close to his face for him to focus on it. He blinks and leans backwards, nearly falling off the bed as he does so, and huh, there do seem to be handwritten numbers on the business card Raphael handed him. Along with a Hotmail email address, which just, no. “You should call him!” Clary chirps, distracting Simon from his study of the business card. 

“It seems a little desperate, doesn’t it?” Simon asks. “I mean, I just intruded on his inner sanctum of brooding and incredibly strong coffee – good _lord_ , was it strong, I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to sleep tonight – for like three hours today. I don’t want him to get sick of me.”

“I bet he’s got another inner sanctum you want to intrude in,” Clary says, waggling her eyebrows. Simon groans and tackles her across the bed, trying to smother her with a pillow while she cackles and the _Sandman_ comics go flying.

 +

At the end of the night, Simon doesn’t call Raphael, although Clary does sit on him until she extracts a promise that he’ll call him within the week.

 And Simon really, truly meant to keep that promise. He was going to write out a whole script, and read a bunch of articles on JSTOR so he could talk to Raphael about Borges without sounding like an idiot. He had a plan. And then he’d agreed to accompany Isabelle to the farmer’s market in Prospect Park, and now he’s hiding behind a display of heirloom tomatoes, speed dialing Clary.

 “Red alert, Fray,” he says, as she picks up. Something clangs distantly in the background of her call, but she ignores it and says:

 “Roger that. What’s up?”

 “Raphael is at the farmer’s market.”

 “What?”

 “ _Raphael_ is at the _farmer’s market_.”

 “Yes, I heard you the first time,” Clary says, and sighs. “Why is that a red alert, again?”

 “Because _Raphael_ is at the --!”

“Simon.” He deflates, slumping behind the tomato stand he’s chosen to hide behind. “Simon, I am in glassblowing class, standing next to a kiln that is hot enough to _melt glass_. This not a red alert phone call, and I am going to hang up now.”

 “But, what do I _do_?” Simon knows he’s whining, but Raphael is at the farmer’s market, looking at basil plants, or arugula, and he really, truly does not know where to go from here.

 “Man up,” Clary says. “Get out from behind whichever pile of vegetables you’ve chosen to hide behind, and go say hi.”

 Simon frowns. “How did you know I’m hiding behind --?”

 “Hello, Simon.”

 Raphael’s voice is smooth, and startles Simon badly enough that he yelps and drops his phone. He shoots to his feet, disrupting a tray of heirloom tomatoes as he goes, and wondering desperately if he can take back the last minute and a half of his life by the heat of his flaming cheeks alone.

 In front of him, Raphael raises an eyebrow. He’s holding a package of coffee beans, and a leafy bunch of kale or something equally healthy.

“Hello,” Simon says, “Come here often?”

“Every other weekend,” Raphael says, deadpan, and Simon splutters.

“Really?” He asks, “you’re interested in organic produce?”

“I contain multitudes,” Raphael says dryly, something that Simon’s seen quoted on Pinterest before but doesn’t quite know where it’s from. He’s sure Raphael could tell him at excruciating length if he asked, but he’s not sure if he wants to hand over that kind of ammunition.

“Good,” he says, a little nonsensically, and Raphael regards him for another moment before shifting the items in his arms with uncharacteristically jerky movements.

“Are you hungry?” Raphael asks, and he’s got a strange look on his face that Simon misses in favor of grabbing his phone from the ground and sticking it back in his pocket.

“Not really,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Izzy and I hit up Shake Shack before heading over here, so I’m pretty much part burger right now.”

Raphael makes a face, and nods sharply. “If you ever are,” he says, “you have my number.”

“If I’m ever hungry?” Simon asks, but Raphael’s already gone, halfway across Grand Army Plaza with his kale and coffee beans. 

+

 “He’s a frickin’ nerd,” Clary says, when he tells her later. “He’s trying to ask you out, but he doesn’t know how, so he just asked if you were hungry and hoped you got it. Obviously.” 

 Simon shoves his hands in his hair and pulls. “Why is he asking me out?”

 “Why are you freaking out about this?” Clary asks, calmly. “He’s nerdy and he’s hot and he’s totally into you. What more could you want?” 

 “This is not how I expected this to go,” Simon says, removing his hands from his hair at Clary’s glance. “I expected to hang around his bookstore pining after him for the next two to three years, leave when he got a restraining order against me, or his bookstore shut down, because seriously, he is the worst business owner ever, and then spend the rest of my life tormenting myself over what might have been.”

 “Dramatic,” Clary says, rolling her eyes. She seems utterly unfazed by his hysterics, more focused on sketch she’s working on. He can tell by the curves of the model that it’s Izzy, but he’s not sure he’s up for looking too closely.

 They sit in silence for a little while, Simon stewing in his thoughts, and utterly failing to read the book Raphael had given him, and Clary sketching peacefully.

 “You should call him,” she says, clamping a hand over Simon’s to stop him from fidgeting. “He gave you his business card. He told you to call him. What is there to lose?”

 “So much,” Simon says. “I might actually die of embarrassment if he rejects me, and then where would we be?”

 “You won’t die,” Clary says, setting aside her sketchbook and rummaging in his bag for his phone. “The worst thing that will happen is that he’ll say no, and we’ll go to that place on Flatbush that doesn’t card and we’ll get drunk.”

 “You make a convincing case, Fray,” Simon says, twirling his phone in his hand when Clary hands it to him. “Okay. Fuck it. I’m gonna do it.”

 Clary whoops and gives him a good luck fist-bump, before picking up her sketchbook and pencils again.

 Simon digs the business card out of his wallet and dials before he loses his nerve, tapping restless fingers against the bedspread until Raphael picks up.

 “Do you eat dinner?” Is Simon’s opening line, and he hears the slap of Clary’s hand against her forehead as she facepalms at his side. There’s a pause.

 “Simon?” Raphael asks, and his voice is low and a little rough, and Simon flails one hand helplessly through the air at Clary, who rolls her eyes and mouths ‘MAN UP’ at him. “Simon?” Raphael asks again, and Simon swallows around the ridiculous fluttering of his heart.

 “Yes. Hi. It’s me. I’m Simon.” Clary groans, and Raphael laughs into his ear.

 “Hi Simon,” he says, teasing just a little, and Simon flops backwards onto the bed, covering his face with one hand. He wonders if Raphael is sitting in his ridiculous Bond villain chair, whether he’s wearing a  t-shirt or a suit, if he’s smiling with his teeth or just indulging Simon. “You asked if I ate dinner?” Raphael prompts after Simon’s been quietly panicking for far too long.

 “Yes!” He blurts. “Yes, I wanted to know if you’d like to eat dinner. With me. Together. Like… together.”

 “Like a date?” Raphael asks, and he’s definitely teasing now. Simon’s not sure if he’ll ever recover.

 “Yeah,” he says. “If you want.”

 “Sure. Meet me at the bookstore at seven tomorrow night,” Raphael says. “I’ll make us dinner.”

 “What? Oh, no, you don’t have to do that.”

 “I’d like to,” Raphael says, and Simon cringes at the excited noise he makes.

 “Great,” he manages, “that sounds great.”

 “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Raphael says, and hangs up smoothly, leaving Simon clutching his phone like some Victorian lady on her fainting couch.

 “Oh, god,” he whispers. “I’m not sure if I’m going to survive this date. What if he wears a suit? What if he _doesn’t_ wear a suit? I’ll burst into flames, and he’ll be too embarrassed to be seen with me ever again and I’ll never get to find out if his shoulders are as solid as they look.”

 Clary just laughs at him.

\+  

 The following day, Simon changes his outfit three times before he gives up and calls Izzy for guidance.

 “Wear those black jeans you hate,” is her advice. “The tight ones Clary and I forced you to buy last year. And your white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. And your jean jacket.”

 “Are you sure about this?” He asks, when he’s changed into what she’s ordered. “I’m definitely not sure about this.”

 “You look like James Dean!” She says, grinning at him through Face-Time. “Super hot.”

 There was a time in his life when nothing would have made Simon happier than hearing Izzy call him hot, but he is older and wiser now, and he’s not sure if he trusts her. “I don’t know, Iz,” he says. “I feel like an American Apparel model.”

 “You look good!” Izzy tells him, “You’re like the prettiest moose, make all the boy moose go--.”

 He hangs up on her braying laughter. Sticks his phone in his pocket, and takes a deep breath before studying himself critically in the mirror. He does hate these jeans, but it’s because they’re uncomfortably tight on his hips, and not because they don’t make his legs look good. They do make his legs look good. He feels good, actually, feels like someone Raphael, with his bookstore and his suits and his sarcasm, might actually be into.

 Simon grins, and makes finger guns at his reflection. He regrets the gesture immediately and scrubs a hand through his hair as he gathers his phone, wallet, and keys, and heads out.

 He’s late, thanks to the C train, and he starts a minor book avalanche as he makes his way through the shop, Boswell’s _Life of Samuel Johnson_ hitting him squarely in the ribs on its way down to the floor. He’s massaging his side and trying to impose some order on the books when Raphael walks up from the back. He’s wearing dark slacks, and a crisp white shirt with the collar open and a silvery-gray waistcoat that makes Simon fumble the books in his hand.

 Raphael smiles at him, and takes the books Simon’s clutching. His fingers are warm where they slide against Simon’s, and his smile is so bright, and his sleeves are rolled up and his _forearms_ , and Simon just. Kisses him.

 Just leans forward and presses his lips against Raphael’s, leaning into his bulk and warmth, before coming abruptly back to himself and pulling away so quickly he knocks another dozen books off the shelves.

 “Shit.” He whispers, staring at Raphael’s lips. “Shit, I shouldn’t have done that.”

 “Why not?” Raphael asks, mildly. He steps closer, tangling his fingers with Simon’s. “I enjoyed it. You should do it again.”

 Simon’s not sure he’ll be able to speak in words that don’t end in exclamation marks so he lets himself fall forward. He stifles a moan against Raphael’s lips, and his knees nearly give out when he feels Raphael smile against his mouth and slide a hand into Simon’s hair, keeping their mouths together with a gentle pressure on the back of his head.

 When Raphael pulls back, it takes Simon a few lungfuls of air to get his breathing under control.  When he finally does, he beams at Raphael, who grins back.

 “This is great,” Simon says. “This is the best date ever.”

 “There’s food, too.” Raphael says, cupping Simon’s hips with his hands. “I made my grandmother’s chicken cacciatore.”

 “Awesome,” Simon breathes.

 They get a little distracted on their way to the back of the bookstore, when Simon pushes Raphael into a shelf full of le Carré novels in his enthusiasm, and knocks the entire thing over.

 When they’ve sorted themselves and the mystery novels out, Raphael leads Simon through the door behind his Bond villain chair. There’s a small kitchen and a flight of stairs that they traipse up, to what turns out to be Raphael’s apartment. It’s a beautiful, bright studio, filled with even more books, a well-worn leather sofa, windows looking out over sunset over Cobble Hill and another, bigger kitchen with a small table, two chairs, and a pot of something delicious bubbling away on the stove.

 “No one’s ever made me dinner before,” Simon says. “I mean, my mom has, but that’s not a date, you know.”

 “I hope you like it,” Raphael says. “It’s my grandmother’s special recipe, I was going to use it to woo you if the waistcoat didn’t work.”

 Simon splutters at him, and Raphael just laughs, lifting the top off the pot and doling out generous servings of the chicken cacciatore. Simon sits down at the table, rolling his eyes at the battered copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_ Raphael is using as a trivet.

 “What’s your favourite book?” He asks, as Raphael settles into the chair across from him.

 " _Cien años de soledad_ ,” Raphael says, his tongue curling warmly around the words. “The first book I gave you,” he clarifies, “ _One Hundred Years of Solitude_.”

 Simon flushes. He's been out-wooed, and he's not sure what to do about it, so he busies himself with his chicken cacciatore. It’s delicious: creamy and a little spicy and incredibly filling. It tastes like home. He grins at Raphael, who rolls his eyes at him and grins right back.

 The conversation between them is easy over their chicken cacciatore, which Simon has second helpings of. He learns about Raphael’s family back in Arizona, his meddling _hermanita_ and his Italian _nonna_ , who handed down the recipe and cooking skillz.

 “Skillz with a ‘z’,” Simon says at the end of the meal, wrapping his arms around his stomach. It’s possible that he shouldn’t have eaten that second helping of cacciatore. If Raphael wants to do anything more energetic than laying down for the next few hours, Simon’s going to be completely useless. “That was delicious. I may never eat again.”

 Behind him, Raphael chuckles softly. He’s doing the dishes, and boiling water for coffee on the stove.

 It strikes Simon that this is the most grown-up date he’s ever been on, and he has to stifle the giggles that threaten to burst forth from his throat. Most of his previous dates have involved Coney Island corndogs, roller coasters, and fumbling make-outs on the twilit boardwalk. Raphael pours the boiling water into his French press deftly, and takes two cups from a cabinet, joining Simon on the couch he’d collapsed into.

 “This was nice,” Simon says after a few peaceful minutes, and then cringes at the platitude.

 “I’m glad you thought so,” Raphael says. He takes a sip of his coffee and then levers himself off the couch, using Simon’s thigh to push himself upright. Simon makes an undignified little noise, and buries his face in his coffee cup to hide his embarrassment.

 Raphael walks across the room to his bookshelves and rummages for a moment before pulling a slim volume out.

 “I’ve got something for you,” he says, walking back to the couch, and hands Simon a copy of Neruda’s _Odes_. “It’s not what Neruda’s known for, but I figure it’s a little early for declarations. We can work our way up to the love poetry.”

 Simon can feel himself turn bright red, and Raphael sinks down into the couch next to him with a grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

 Simon hits him with the book, and Raphael laughs, dodging the sharp ends of the spine. The dodge means that Raphael ends up on the other side of the couch, smirking, and Simon sets his coffee cup down with careful fingers, and then lunges across the couch, accidentally knocking their foreheads together and pushing Raphael deeper into the couch. He grins down at the older man, and kisses him.


End file.
